


The Coming of the Forgotten

by Caranor



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:54:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27527992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caranor/pseuds/Caranor
Summary: Herein follows the account of the great turmoil that befell the west of Middle-earth nigh the end of the Fourth Age of the Sun, and of the finding of the great jewel.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6
Collections: Henneth Annûn Story Archive





	1. Scroll I

It is said by the elders among the wandering folk once known as the Men of the West that in the waning years of the Fourth Age a great power arose in the East; and that with great strength of men, its hordes crossed over the Misty Mountains, bringing ruin and laying waste to all in their path. In the face of the terrible onslaught, the peoples who dwelt in the land of Eriador soon fled their homes in search of safe haven; and a few, they say, in time found refuge in the forgotten wastes of the North, but most at last were bound in thraldom. And when the mighty Eastern lord turned his eyes to the South, and to the remaining Western strongholds therein, the days of the great kingdom founded long ago by Elendil the Tall hastened towards their final hour.

As the seasons lengthened and the days grew short in the land of Gondor, tidings came to King Elarad IV that the great Eastern host had crossed the River Isen. Every able man in the realm was at once called upon to help defend Minas Tirith; and it was in that hour, as the princes of the West marched in strength towards the great battle of the age, that a herald arrived from the south bringing word of the finding of a most radiant jewel on the shores of Tolfalas. And greatly intrigued by the discovery, Elarad summoned to his presence Bergil, the royal lore-master, and bade him find out all that could be learned of the precious stone; for in the sudden appearance of the peerless jewel in that hour of great doom, the King had seen a sign of hope.

That very evening Bergil, along with his young apprentice Giliorn, departed Minas Tirith and a fortnight later arrived on the shores of Lebennin in the south of Gondor. At the lore-master’s behest, the recovered jewel was brought to a great vaulting chamber within the bowels of Mount Belgorod, a vast cavern whose southern end was torn by a great rift that formed a steep precipice over the deep waters of the Bay of Belfalas. To house the stone, a stand was built nigh the edge of the cliff; and by order of the king, none but Bergil was allowed to enter the site. For in those days lurked in the land many spies of Herumor, the Black Sorcerer, whose dark deeds had brought ever great evil upon the realm since the far-off days of King Elessar; and under whose sway, it was thought, the Eastern king of kings had crossed the Misty Mountains.

Now one evening in late autumn of that fateful year, as Bergil’s pupil walked towards his abode on the outskirts of the village, he came upon an old man sitting on a log by the side of the road. The stranger had a long white beard and wore a white robe that covered the length of his body; and in his right hand he held what seemed to the young man a very odd-looking staff. He asked Giliorn if he knew of a place where he could find shelter for the night, and the young man replied that there was none nearby; but then, taking pity on the old man, the lore-master's apprentice bade him come with him and stay at his dwelling place for a while.

In the days that followed, it became ever more apparent to Giliorn that the stranger, whom men called Gearlin, was wise beyond measure in the ancient lore of Elves and Men, and an odd suspicion soon arose in his mind. One evening, as the two sat together by the hearth, he asked abruptly, “Who are you?”

“Oh, I am just an old wanderer,” replied the white-clad figure.

That answer, however, did not satisfy the young lore-master, who twisted his mouth in a dismissive gesture. “By now you must be aware,” he said, “that much I have learned of the great events of the end of the Third Age and the ones who shaped them;” and then leaning forward and looking keenly into his guest’s eyes, he added in a deliberate tone, “and it seems to me that you are not unlike one who sailed away to the Undying Lands in those far-off days.” On hearing the young man’s insinuating remark, the corners of Gearlin’s lips curled up slightly, but he said not a word.

As these things took place on the shores of Belfalas, many leagues to the north, the vanguard of the great Eastern host reached at last the edge of the Pelennor; and two days thereafter, on the eve of the Wintertide Moon, the storied fields about Minas Tirith would once again witness a great battle to decide the fate of the Faithful.

Not since the days of the might of Sauron the Black had such great strength gathered on the fields of Gondor. Like a swift tide, the Easterners fell upon the armies of Elarad and soon drove them back against the very walls of their stronghold, and thereupon brought forth their great battering ram and made for the gates of the White City. But seeing this the Knights of Dol Amroth, who alone of the men of Middle-earth bore yet a vague resemblance to those great Dúnedain of old, came to the fore in that hour; and they led the riders of the Gondor on a courageous charge against the invaders that would be long remembered in song in the forgotten places of the West.

As thunder was the roar of their hoof-steps as they neared their foes; and in the terrible clash that followed, shields were shattered and bodies were flung afar, and a pool of red soon grew thick beneath their feet. But at length the horsemen of Gondor broke past the van of the great Eastern army, and then continued to plough forth deep into the ranks of their main host, causing great turmoil and staying their advance at that moment. Nonetheless, too great was the might of the invaders; and ere the cavalry of the West could reach the Easterner’s massive siege engine, they were overcome at last by the countless spears and arrows that assailed them and forced to turn back with heavy loss.

And so the enemy resumed their push. And as sunset fell over Gondor on the third day of battle, they reached the gates of the White City and soon broke down its mighty portal. And then, coming unhindered to the gate’s watchtower, their flag-bearer climbed to the top of the structure and raised the banner of the Eastern king above the gateway to the long-revered seat of the kings of the West. For Elarad had fled the city, and the rule of the Faithful was come to an end.

No tale, it is said, in all the lore of the kingdoms of Men upon Middle-earth told of greater loss than the account of the fall of Minas Tirith; for many things ancient and noble saw their end in that hour. In the North square of the city, those magnificent sculptures named the Treasures of Andúnië, made in the springtide of Gondor by men whose craft had been long forgotten, were brought down and torn to pieces before myriads of tearful eyes; while in the hallows of Rath Dínen the tombs of the first kings, long held in great reverence, were pried open and defiled, and their royal effigies defaced in fatuous ways in mockery of their elder majesty. And as the first stars pierced the veil of the evening sky above the mountains to the east, the victors, bearing great axes and blazing torches, climbed to the uppermost level of the ancient city and felled the White Tree of Gondor. 

The ravaging of the ancient Dúnedain treasures was to continue unchecked for many a day to follow; and by the final blow of the hammer, naught would remain unspoiled within the walls of Minas Tirith to bespeak thereafter its former splendour. And to the once proud throne in that city’s high chamber, none would come again who traced their line to those tall men of legend who appeared on the shores of Middle-earth at the breaking of the world.

𝀈 End of Scroll I 𝀈


	2. Scroll II

When tidings reached Gearlin of the fall of Minas Tirith, he betook himself to the edge of the forest and brooded there long in silence. As evening drew near, he returned with hasty steps to his young friend’s small abode. “I must see the stone at once,” he said to Giliorn, “that I may send word of its appearance to my lord;” but the young lore-master replied that such a thing was not possible, as Bergil alone had been given leave to enter the cave. Upon hearing that reply Gearlin stepped forth, grasped the young man’s arm and said in a frantic tone, "If the great jewel has indeed returned from the depths, a great doom must be at work in this hour!" At that point he stopped and closed his eyes for an instant, and thereupon drew a deep breath and let go of the apprentice's arm. After a moment he turned a blank gaze towards the burning logs in the hearth and added in a low voice, "For it is said that the fate of Arda is woven about the Silmarils."

“Do you mean,” said Giliorn with astonishment, “that that brilliant jewel found in Tolfalas is one of the long-lost Silmarils of legend?” And as no answer was forthcoming, the young apprentice continued, “But the Silmarils were meant to remain unfound until the final days, were they not?” His guest however remained silent as he stared absently at the fire. “Gearlin?” inquired again the young man.

“None knows save the One,” said the white-clad figure, “when such time shall be upon us.” Then he turned towards the young apprentice and added somberly, “And powerful forces are ever at work in this world who seek to further their own dark designs.”

Giliorn sat down and remained silent for a long while, as one deep in thought. At length he raised his eyes and said quietly, “The Jewel Chamber may be reached by secret ways.” And Gearlin at once turned a piercing glance towards him. “My master,” continued the young man, “bade me tell no one about it, lest this knowledge should come to unfriendly ears.”

“How can I find this secret passage?” said the white-clad figure.

“It is a tunnel on the western side of the mountain, whose entrance is concealed by a great round boulder,” replied Giliorn. “Bergil told me that it was dug long ago by men loyal to the king during the rebellion of Castamir. I can take you there if you wish.”

The two agreed that the visit would take place three nights thence, as that was expected to be the start of the new moon, which would make it easier for them to pass unseen on their way to the secret entrance.

On the evening that followed their discussion about the hidden tunnel, as Giliorn returned home from a meeting with his master, an odd occurrence befell him nigh the edge of the village. The medallion that hung from his neck suddenly left its chain and fell to the ground, and it then continued to roll away from him until it came to rest at the feet of a tall man clad in a grey hooded cloak. The stranger picked up the silver piece and gazed at it keenly for a moment. After that, he walked towards the young apprentice, and lifting not his gaze, handed him the pendant and vanished without a word.

Upon arriving at his abode, Bergil’s pupil went at once to his white-bearded guest to tell him of the strange incident that had befallen him on the road. As the tale progressed, Gearlin, who was standing by the hearth, closed his eyes and wrapped both hands firmly around his staff. He would remain thus for a long while, even past the end of the young man’s recount; but at length he looked up at his host and said, “May I see the piece?” 

Giliorn removed the pendant and handed it to him, saying, “It had never come loose before.”

Gearlin took a seat and then examined the item carefully for some time. After a moment he began to nod his head slowly and said, “This is no doubt the medallion of the kings of Númenor.”

“The medallion of the kings of Númenor!” repeated the young man with astonishment. “But how is that possible? I found this pendant lying by the edge of the River Poros near my home in South Ithilien.”

“I learned of this piece from Rúmil, a great master of Elven-lore,” said Gearlin. “It was made in Andor with the aid of the Noldor exiles who had returned to Avallónë after the fall of Morgoth; and it was a treasured heirloom of the kings of Westernesse ere the Shadow fell upon that land. How came such a relic to dwell in these shores, I know not.”

Following its utter defeat at the battle for Minas Tirith, the Western host fled south and took refuge outside the ancient haven of Pelargir. And knowing the fleet of Gondor close at hand, the captains of the realm went to the king at once and urged him to make use of the ships to bear them away to safety; but Elarad was fey and would hear not of fleeing his homeland. “For six thousand years,” he said, “this kingdom has endured in the face of mighty foes and despite ill fate. If it must fall during my rule, let it end with a clashing of swords.” And so, the king ordered his men to prepare to march once more, and on Midwinter’s day he led them many leagues to the west to meet the enemy on the fields of Callaun, and their final battle.

Brief was their stand and long their sorrowful retreat. Battered and decimated, the remains of the Western host fled towards the east and came at length back to Pelargir. Once there, the men gathered all the emblems and symbols that bespoke the glory of the realm that was and then began to board the ships that would bear them away from their homeland for ever. But the King would lead them not on that journey, for an arrow had pierced his chest in the fields of Callaun; and fearing death should come to him ere the fleet had set sail, he bade his steward take his body on board the lead ship and cast it into the deep sea, adding, “For I shall find no rest in the land of my forefathers now lost to their foes.” Following that he handed the Ring of Barahir and Anduril, his sword, to his noble servant, and with his last breath whispered, “May one worthier than I bear them in time.” Thus ended Elarad IV, last of the line of Elendil of Númenor. And in that instant, it is said, the last sapling that yet remained of the White Tree of Gondor, that had come of Nimloth the Fair, and of Celeborn, and of Galathilion of Tirion, died in an obscure field outside Minas Tirith.

None would come forth again to claim kingship over the people known as the Men of the West, and for long years the kingdom reunited at the end of the Third Age by Elessar the Great passed out of thought and song. Yet, even as the survivors of Callaun sailed away towards the unknown, somewhere in the deep catacombs of the North, it is said, a seer foretold that one day, when the Black Stone of Elendil returns among the Faithful, one shall be born in a far-off land who will rekindle in the hearts of men the Flame of the West.

𝀈 End of Scroll II 𝀈


	3. Scroll III

With the final defeat of the Western host in the fields of Callaun, many of the soldiers in the south of Gondor deserted their units, leaving only a handful of guards to watch over the great jewel. It soon became known that Herumor, along with numerous servants, was making for the shores of Belfalas intent on seizing the precious stone; and on hearing this, Giliorn turned to his white-clad guest and said, “We must go to the cave at once; the Black Sorcerer cannot be allowed to take the jewel.”

A look of great distress came upon Gearlin's countenance at that moment. “No, no, I cannot interfere," he said as he paced anxiously about the small parlour, as if struggling with himself. At length he paused and drew a long breath, and following that turned towards his young friend and continued soberly, “For things were foresung that are known not to those who sent me.”

“I understand not the meaning of your words," replied the lore-master’s apprentice, and an instant later, added in a determined tone, "But alone if I must, I shall attempt to keep Herumor from gaining possession of the great jewel.”

On seeing the young man’s resolve, an expression of deep sorrow drew itself upon Gearlin’s face. After a short while, he walked slowly towards Giliorn, put his hands on his shoulders and said softly, “I am afraid my young friend that you must do this without my help. Your best course now is to follow your own heart.”

The young lore-master remained silent for a few moments as he attempted to summon his courage. At length he looked up at his guest and said, “Will you at least come with me?”

“If that is your wish," replied Gearlin, "but only as an observer.”

As sunset drew near on that afternoon, the two reached the great boulder behind which lay the secret entrance to the cave. They then climbed down the dark pit and followed a narrow tunnel until they came at length to a more open space; it was a small terrace that stood a dozen feet above the floor of the vast chamber wherein the great jewel was kept. At that point they stopped and moved behind a fold in the cave wall, that their presence would not be noticed by the two soldiers who stood watch over the precious stone.

Soon a series of loud noises was heard coming from the cave’s main entrance to the east; and moments later, one of the guards left his post to go and see about the tumult, while the other one moved behind a large boulder to conceal his presence from any arriving intruder.

Not long thereafter, a tall man clad all in black and wearing a red mask upon his face entered the chamber escorted by two servants. Following a brief pause, the sinister figure proceeded with measured steps towards the stand that held the great jewel; but ere he could reach the stone, out of the shadows sprang forth the last remaining Western guard and moved swiftly towards him unawares. As the soldier prepared to swing his sword at the sorcerer, however, his strength seemed to suddenly fail him, and his weapon slipped from his hand and fell to the ground. At that point Herumor turned to look upon his assailant. “Fool!" he said. "I am beyond thy feeble arts.” Thereupon the guard collapsed to the ground, stabbed in the back by one of the sorcerer’s servants.

Seeing that naught stood now between Herumor and the jewel, Giliorn at that moment began to walk in the direction of the black figure; but ere he had gone far, Gearlin grasped his arm and held him back. "I think this fight is better left to someone else," he whispered.

The young man turned to look at his grizzled friend with a baffled expression. "What are you talking about?" he said. "There is no one else."

Gearlin gestured to the young apprentice to keep his voice down. "Someone has been tracing our steps since we left the village," said the white figure; "perhaps it would be wise to allow him to reveal his purpose."

Giliorn thought the plan senseless; but knowing that any attempt on his part to stay the hand of the Black Sorcerer would likely end in utter failure, he decided to wait a little bit.

Herumor meanwhile continued on towards the stand that held the jewel, and upon reaching its side, he stood silent for some time gazing lustily upon the Silmaril. “Its light shall feed the darkness,” he said at length, “and bind anew the ancient power of the Forgotten.” Thereupon he reached for the stone and placed it inside a leather pouch, that its radiance would burn not his hand. 

In that very instant, however, a tall one clad in a grey hooded cloak walked briskly past the two hidden observers, then leapt onto the floor of the main chamber and continued on towards the Black Sorcerer. As he drew near, the newcomer pulled back his hood and revealed himself; and on seeing his face, Herumor quailed and shrank back from his presence. The white light that was on the stranger’s countenance grew brighter in that moment, and wrapping his fingers around the hilt of his sword, he said, “I am Maglor, last of the sons of Fëanor, of the royal house of Finwë, who awoke in Cuiviénen years unnumbered. An oath I swore by the name of Ilúvatar ere the sun rose first in the east to regain the Silmarils from whomsoever possessed them; and that stone in your hand, I shall now take.”

As if paralyzed by fear, the sorcerer looked on with eyes widened as the elf drew out his great sword, which seemed to grow brighter in that moment. Then the old Noldor prince stepped forth, and gazing straight into the eyes of the black figure, ran the blade through his darkened heart. A blinding flash lit the chamber in that instant, followed by a dreadful shriek that echoed like the caws of a thousand crows throughout the vast expanses of the cave; whereupon Herumor collapsed to the ground and was no more.

With their master vanquished, the servants of the Black Sorcerer soon fled the chamber in fear, and seeing this Maglor sheathed his sword and turned towards his dead foe. Following that he stooped over the sorcerer’s ruin and picked up the leather pouch; and then reaching inside of it, he grabbed hold of the Silmaril, the very jewel that his own hand had long ago cast into the sea, and saw that it burned him not. For a while he stood very still, as if entranced by the brilliance of the precious stone, but then he closed his eyes and lowered his head in sorrow. 

After some time he walked over to the edge of the precipice and gazed out at the endless sea, and remained there long in silence as the Sun sank in the west. But at length he turned around, set his eyes on Gearlin and bowed his head slightly, as one who acknowledges an old acquaintance. Then he said, “To the sea the jewel must return, that Arda may still be. And into the depths I shall follow it, and thus my oath fulfil.”

Following that he turned again towards the sea and drew a deep breath, and thereupon turned his gaze towards the west and stepped forth into the void. And so ended Maglor, last of the Elves of Light seen by mortal eyes, whose tears fell longer and were more bitter than any in Arda save those of Nienna Qalmë-Tári. But his fëa, it is said, at length arose and left the sea as a thin white mist, and borne upon a gentle wind, flew away slowly towards the setting sun. But of the judgement upon the last departing son of Fëanor, no tale tells.

For his aid to the envoy of the Valar and his part in the return of the Silmaril to the sea, Giliorn was given a place in the elven vessel bound for the Undying Lands. And as the ship set sail and he began his journey towards a future of wonder, he felt a tear roll down his face for the once great kingdom that was lost; and a sigh parted his lips for Elarad, last of a long line that traced its roots to those ancient fathers of Men who crossed the western mountains in the legendary days of the Elven Kingdoms of Beleriand. And after the ship had passed beyond sight of the haven, naught was heard again of the young lore-master in mortal lands; nor shall aught else be known of him, say the elders, ere the world is changed again.

The great events of that tumultuous year marked the end of the Fourth Age in the reckoning of those who yet carry forth the ancient tradition, started by the Eldar with the coming of the Sun. And even though each new age has seen this people grow further asunder from the Ancient West, for which they long, in their hearts burns yet the flame of hope; and with quiet perseverance, they prepare for the day wherein the sound of that last triumphant chord, deeper than the Abyss, higher than the Firmament and piercing as the light of the eye of Ilúvatar, is heard within the Circles of the World.

𝀈 𝀈𝀈

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of the Medallion of the Kings of Númenor and the earliest known deeds of Herumor is told in the manuscript named 'The Heirs of Haeron.'


End file.
